


Orchid's Delight

by mockinrine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Celebrities, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fame, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Background Relationships, Model Daenerys Targaryen, Model Jon Snow, Modern Westeros, Slow Burn, Smut, it's a country, more characters tba - Freeform, more tags tba, with its unique social norms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockinrine/pseuds/mockinrine
Summary: Modeling prodigy Daenerys Targaryen starts an agency with her friends. Too bad they're in dire need of a male model. One such as, say, a certain dark haired brooding fellow that catches their eye.





	1. Morning Glory

**Author's Note:**

> this idea's been bugging me for a while, so i thought, "why not?"
> 
> it's a jonerys modern AU which will dive into the philosophies of fame and celebrity as well, how it changes and corrupts people. there'll be lots of sexual content, i expect, so if this is your cup of tea, welcome. ;)
> 
> there will also be minor jon/val and dany/daario throughout the story, but not as anything too serious. rather as mild annoyances.
> 
> anyway, this is the first chapter and i hope someone will like it!

_“Amidst all of these flashing lights, I pray the fame won’t change my life.”_

**DAENERYS**

“Roll,” sighed Missandei. “It’s your turn.”

Daenerys sighed, rolling a finger over one of the dices on the table.

“I don’t feel like playing anymore. I’m bored.”

“You can’t just _quit_ midway through the game,” scoffed Doreah – or _Reah,_ as she would much rather be called.

“Let her be,” jumped in Daario, reaching over the game board to scoop the dices in his palm. “We don’t even know if it’s actually the middle of the game. It’s _Monopoly,_ for Christ’s sake.”

Quirking a brow, Dany helplessly glanced over to Grey, who was stiffly sitting in his own chair and waiting for his turn.

There they were. Five idiots around a table way late into the night, having just spent God knows how many fucking hours on Monopoly. And this shit had been the _peak_ of their day too. _What a joke,_ Dany thought, lowering her forehead into her arms, now folded over the table.

It was frankly a wonder that she was this bored seeing how heated she had gotten during the first half of the game. Nothing personal, though. She was just a competitive monster. Her peers surely all understood that.

“Alright. I think this is the perfect time to call it quits,” said Missandei, her claim met with exasperated sighs from Daario and Reah.

“It’s been a long fucking day, folks,” protested Daario, but Missandei was already cleaning the table of board pieces and other miscellaneous items, helped by Grey. “What, are you allergic to fun?”

“There is a point when it stops being fun and it just becomes annoying,” sighed Reah.

Dany’s attention shifted toward the door by the bar, her head rising as she saw Jorah Mormont stroll into the empty lounge.

“Does this all commotion mean you are finally leaving?” he asked, catching Dany’s gaze for a brief moment before leaning against the counter.

Daario sat up, kicking his chair back underneath the table.

“Are you kicking us out, Mormont?”

“Do I have to?” Silence. “I should’ve done it hours ago. We do have closing hours.”

“We know, Bear-Bear,” cooed Reah, grinning from one ear to another. Dany saw mild repulsion overtake Jorah’s features. He _hated_ when Reah called him that. “But what’s the point of having friendly bar owners if you can’t take advantage of it?”

All Jorah offered in response was a shake of his head. He reached for a liquor bottle on the display behind him, sparking Dany’s appetite, so she rose from her seat and sashayed toward the stool.

He turned around and breathed out, “Khaleesi.”

“You can call me Daenerys, Jorah,” she said, tiredly. “You know that.”

“My apologies. It’s not easy to shrug off habit.”

“I know. It’s like calling Lady Gaga Stefani all of sudden.”

Jorah frowned lightly.

“I take it by your sour mood that you haven’t had any luck?”

Dany grimaced lightly, gaze lowering in bitter defeat.

“Hand me one of those mint liquors,” she wallowed, pointing a dainty finger toward one of the bottles hung on the display. “Because, no. All we’ve had was a lot of headaches.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Jorah reached out for the bottle and, much to Dany’s relief, elected to hand it over whole together with a clean glass. She liked it best when she could pour her own dosages.

“Thanks,” she said, both to the worded consolation and the bottle that found its way in her grip. “We really need to figure it all out as soon as possible.”

“Did you manage to secure the studio?”

“Yes…” A sigh rolled off her tongue just when she tilted the bottle above the glass, observing in numb satisfaction as the heavy, minty liquid filled the clearness of the glass.

Jorah’s brows bolted, “—But…?”

“But you know we can’t afford renting it if it’s just the five of us.” The thud resulting from her basically slamming the bottle back down was very telling of her frustration. “They gave us three more days before they accept another offer.”

“Three more days to find your guy,” concluded Jorah.

“Cheers,” she replied pathetically, taking a generous chug and rejoicing in the mild scorching at her throat.

“Dany,” called Missandei and Dany’s head twirled around. “We’re leaving. Are you coming?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.”

She only then realized they had taken care of the game and gotten ready for their departure while she had been enjoying her chat and the drink.

“Have you tried online advertising?” queried Jorah just as she was climbing off her stool and emptying the glass of its remaining contents. She was in such a rush to do so that she broke into a coughing fit once her goal had been met.

“We tried _everything,_ ” was her response, muffled against the back of her hand which attempted to soothe the coughs. “Guess we’ve got no choice but to try the old fashioned way now.”

“We’re not getting off this hook, are we?” sighed Reah.

“Nope. Tomorrow, you hit the streets.”

 

* * *

 

**JON**

His hand was on the handle, pulling at the door with every ounce of effort straining at his muscles. He grunted in frustration, placed the other hand over the first, and _yanked._

The door opened with a heavy groan and he nearly fell backwards.

Arya was outside, in the corridor, wide eyes staring at him, a toothbrush bulging at her cheek. She took it out and laughed.

“Did your door get stuck again, Jon?”

Jon practically glared at the damn thing, reaching for the bag and jacket he had neatly folded on a chair by the threshold.

“One of these days,” he sighed, “it just won’t open at all.”

“You will rot in there,” said Arya flatly.

“I will die in here.”

“Or not.” She beamed. “Not if I’ll climb the tree outside and bring you food.”

A twitch tempted at the corners of his lips as he belted the bag over his shoulder, stepping into the corridor.

“I know I can always count on you, little sister,” he said meekly, ruffling a hand through her hair and enjoying the clear sound of her laughter.

And with that, he left Arya behind and started his descent down the staircase of the house.

Commotion spread through it as always during these early hours. His father was the only one who left for work earlier than the other departures. Bran and Rickon usually went to school together while Arya preferred solitude. Jon, Robb, and Sansa left the house at the same time, but he only shared a path with Robb – up to a point, of course.

And, honestly, he was glad there was always so much agitation around.

Catelyn would get all worked up in preparations and keeping everything in check, so she bothered him the least during this time of the day. However, even then, as he planted his foot on the final step, he briefly caught her icy glance while she was on the phone on the kitchen and felt nothing but pangs of repulsion.

“Hey, Jon.” Robb’s voice startled him slightly. “Ready? We shouldn’t be late.”

“The opening ceremony is always the same,” murmured Jon, but surrendered nonetheless.

“I know, but I just want—”

“To spend time with your friends, I know, I know.”

The two of them headed out through the door while Robb said his goodbyes to Catelyn, who was still juggling with a phone conversation and arguing with Sansa over her outfit choice.

Sometimes Jon couldn’t tell whether Robb’s biggest problem was his ridiculously outgoing nature or how proper he was sometimes. And that came from _him,_ a king of clean-cut properness in many people’s eyes. But Jon never took as much genuine enjoyment in it as Robb seemed to. He simply had no choice but to obey Catelyn Stark’s requirements, to not cause trouble and to try to make up for his shameful bastard status by being as well-integrated in society as his half-siblings. One misstep and she would have him kicked out.

And, oh, she’d tried so many times.

Ned Stark had showed up home with Arthur Dayne at his side twenty-one years before. Jon had heard through various peers about that night, how broken his father had been, both over the difficult situation he would force his wife to face and over Ashara Dayne’s tragic suicide.

His mother had been a highly beautiful woman, Jon had heard. A renowned enchantress. But most people agreed she had truly loved Ned Stark, thus her choice to end her life after their fling could not be taken beyond, trampled by Ned’s marriage to Catelyn.

If news of this union would have reached Ashara earlier, while she had still been pregnant, Jon may not have been born.

Her ghost was carried by him every day. He could see it in Catelyn’s scornful gaze. She had only accepted to harbor him because of her love for Ned, but she had insisted for him to take another surname, a custom to weed out the bastards that had nearly gone extinct. But Catelyn came from the Tully family, from the Riverlands, where traditions were sacred and strictly preserved.

It had been winter that night and snowflakes had melted into the cloth wrapped around him.

So, Ned Stark had named him _Snow._

But despite this badge being constantly attached to him, most people turned a blind eye. After all, no one really cared about dead customs in these parts of the country. This was King’s Landing, the progressive heart of Westeros, after all. But most of all, he was incredibly close to his siblings, perhaps save for Sansa, who Catelyn had closely raised in her ancient beliefs.

“This is where I take off,” announced Robb, turning right along the boulevard. “Have fun at the ceremony, Snow.”

“You too, Stark.”

Jon stood rooted in place for a moment, staring to the left of the boulevard, pondering on his next move. This was the start of his third year in college, but _nothing_ ever happened during those fucking opening ceremonies. He’d much rather enjoy some solitude and a nice smoke over a warm cup of coffee. Of _proper_ coffee, not the dish wash water Old Nan made, bless her heart.

The decision dawned on him almost instantly, so he turned around and started to stroll toward the center of the city.

He liked cafes. He didn’t know why. Especially the cozy and coquette ones with interesting variety on the menus. For someone studying to become a brilliant _accountant,_ he surely spent a lot of time analyzing the aesthetics of the boutiques, and flower shops, and bakeries that he walked past.

At last, he stopped at the Trembling Cup, a location he had seen _Sansa_ give great reviews. Surely that meant something. He almost went to push the door open and step inside, but one more look at the glossy sky bathing in gentle sunlight and the pleasant coolness of the air changed his mind.

This was an outdoor day.

So, he removed the bag from his shoulder, dumped it on the small, round table and sank into a seat, quickly scooping the earphones from the pocket of his jacket and plucking them into his ears. He ordered a Peanut Crusher, whatever that was. It had _Peanut_ in the name. It would probably be good.

He just wanted to relax and let the music cruising from his phone to flood his ears, but, like always, he found a rush of anxiety take over, so he resorted to taking a textbook out of the bag.

_Courses haven’t even started yet, Jon. Christ._

Whenever he would try to enjoy leisure time, he could feel Catelyn Stark breathing down his neck, awaiting the day he would leave her household like Christmas day.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes since he had started on the reading. He hadn’t even gotten started with his coffee since it was still too hot. But he was already startled out of his focused analysis by a hand that flung a flyer on his table in a haste – and then a gentle thud followed suit.

At first, he paid no mind to the flyer (or the person who had dropped it). It had been the noise to catch his attention. One thorough look and his dark eyes caught sight of the wallet resting on the ground by his table.

 _Oh, great._ He lifted his gaze and saw the man with an armful of fliers walk off at a fastened pace. _I can’t believe he dropped his fucking wallet._

With a sigh, he clumsily stuffed the textbook back into the bag.

“Hey,” he called out. No answer. “Hey!” He tried again, this time reaching for the wallet. Again, no answer. Much to his frustration, Jon was left with no choice but to _pursue_ the guy, even having to break into a light job to reach him. Frustrated, he reached out a hand and tapped that _asshole_ on the shoulder to get his goddamn attention and only when he turned around, seemingly just as annoyed, did Jon notice this dude had freaking _blue_ hair and a _blue_ beard.

“Can I help you?”

“No, you just,” Jon sighed, extending the wallet. “You dropped this earlier.”

“Dropped it?” The guy stared at the item almost suspiciously, arching a brow. “Where did I _drop_ it?” Something about the tone of his voice told Jon he didn’t buy into this concept for some reason. _Shit,_ he suddenly realized. _Does he think I stole the stupid thing? What kind of person jumps to this assumption right away?_

“By Trembling Cup,” explained Jon, feeling his impatience flare up. “When you left one of those.” He pointed toward the pile of fliers in his arms.

“Daario!” squealed a sudden voice and Jon observed as a young woman popped up from behind the blue-haired fellow. She was rather tall, her skin olive, her hair a deep brown, and her green eyes staring at him with _burning_ intensity. “Did you find something?”

“No,” snorted _Daario,_ finally reaching out for the wallet Jon had been keeping extended toward him for several good _minutes._ “Apparently I just dropped my wallet.”

“Oh,” breathed the girl, but she sounded a lot more fascinated than disappointed. Jon took a hesitant step back and he realized the same flyers were sticking out of the bag hooked to her shoulder. “Wait,” she said, roaming through the bag and then holding out a crumpled brochure to him. “Have this.”

“I have one already,” he protested.

“I don’t see it, though.” _What the fuck?_

“I think he just left it on the table, Reah,” snickered Daario. What kind of stupid ass names were _Daario_ and _Reah?_ Definitely foreign, that was certain.

“Yeah, and one abandoned flyer is enough,” snapped Jon, suddenly feeling _suffocated_.

“Have you even read it?” queried Reah, taking a tentative step toward him, her movements almost feline-like.

“No,” said Jon, dumbly. _Fuck. Don’t admit to it, you idiot._ “I should go.”

“Please, please, please,” she suddenly started to plead, much to his dismay. “Just give it a look. That’s all.” Jon relented and took the accursed paper with a sigh. “Actually, that’s not all.” He peeked at her through his lashes. There was a catty smile played on her lips and her gaze continued to burn holes into his soul. “Can I ask for kind of a weird thing?”

 _Fucking no,_ he wanted to say.

“Sure, I guess,” he ended up saying.

“Could you let your hair down?”

This time, he didn’t even bother to _try_ to hide his bewilderment.

“Wh—What?”

“Your hair,” she chortled. “You’re keeping it all bound and I have this feeling it’s a great national loss.”

“She has a hair fetish,” butted in Daario. She elbowed him in his side.

“Fuck you,” she grumbled. “I’m a _hair stylist._ ”

 _Oh._ Well, that made things slightly less weird. Just slightly.

For some godforsaken reason, Jon succumbed to her wish and removed the hairband, letting his tresses lazily frame his face. This _Reah_ seemed to harbor no shame when she wasted no moment to extend her hand and catch a few strands between her fingers. Any sane person would have bolted, but not _this_ idiot.

“Aw,” she whined suddenly. “Do you straighten it?”

“Uh,” Jon gulped awkwardly, “yeah, I do. Why?”

“So, it’s actually curly.”

“Again, yeah. Again, _why?_ ”

“Nothing,” she cooed, offering an earnest smile. “I just think you’d look prettier with it natural.” _Did she just call me pretty?_

“My God, Doreah,” huffed that blue-haired monster, “make him any more prettier and we’ll be back to square one in no time. He’ll only be good for the dresses.” _What the fuck are these people on about?_

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Jon finally managed to brave out. “I really, really have to go now. Thanks—thanks for the flyer, I… I guess. And for the, um, for the _tips._ ” If he could call them that. He was already turned on his heel, already backing away, ready to _fight a bitch_ if these two weirdos dared to nag him again.

“Alright, sure,” chimed Reah and he swore he saw her wink. “Thanks for your time.”

Well, that was awfully cooperative of them. Especially since it seemed they had some sort of clear goal and he’d been at the center of it. They didn’t even get anything out of this encounter except some creepy _hair porn_ moment.

He was already walking off when he remembered his hair and that he’d dropped the hairband somewhere. Ah, whatever. He wouldn’t go back for a stupid hairband.

When he stuck his fist into the pocket of his jacket, his knuckles found the uncomfortable harshness of the stuffed flyer inside. Now that he was rid of the nervousness of the encounter, he let curiosity wash over him and he _finally_ looked at the thing.

 _Valyrian Delight,_ it read, the fancy cursive of the font catching his eye. Underneath, there was a photo of what looked like a design studio of sorts, though it seemed an awful lot like a stock image.

He kept on reading.

_Are you bored? Are you interested in becoming part of a project for the future? Valyrian Delight is a design house just opening its doors and YOU can become part of it._

_Numerous positions available. Model for the men’s clothing line needed ASAP._

When he flipped the flyer to the other side, there were even more details, but he was beyond disinterested in reading them. He plunged the paper back into his pocket as he walked through Trembling Cup’s door, ready to heartily apologize for having stormed off without _freaking paying._

The bartender was beyond understanding, fortunately.

Jon reached for his wallet and—

Wow. What the hell? Nothing.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, his fingers continuing to insistently rummage through his pockets.

Once again, nothing.

In no time, he was turning the bag around, emptying it, filling it again, and downright hyperventilating in the middle of it. _Shit. SHIT. SHIT, SHIT, SHIT._

He paled instantly, but somehow, he found an ounce of composure left, enough to take him on a memory cruise and to remember what on Earth could have happened to literally the most important legal possession he owned.

And then he remembered.

The blue-haired punk had left his sight at some point. He’d shifted around, he’d walked around him, and— _oh._ That’s right. Only someone who could know the arts of swiftly slipping a wallet from someone else’s wallet could be so suspicious of it possibly happening to him.

 _Holy hell,_ he thought, nibbling nervously at his nails, trying to piece together an explanation. _Holy shit, I can’t believe this is happening._

Then, like a hook of hope had been lowered for him, he remembered the flyer. He hastily rushed it out of his pocket, flipped it, scanned the rows, and felt his heart release some tension as he read lines he wanted to see.

_Find us at the Bear Island today and tomorrow between 8 AM – 14 PM._

_That’s great,_ he mentally lamented, releasing probably the world’s heaviest sigh. _I’m gonna have to go get it, won’t I?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have a schedule set for this story, so i imagine update rate will mostly be influenced by feedback and stuff like that.
> 
> i wanted to keep explanations and details for the next chapter when they will be revealed by the characters, hence why the slight mystery of this chapter.
> 
> anywho, til the next update!


	2. Clover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon arrives at Bear Island to retrieve his wallet and gets dragged into a whole other business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this update would've come sooner, but real life got in the way of it. 
> 
> this is a wildly expository chapter but, phew, at least it's out of the way now.
> 
> enjoy!

**JON**

He was at Bear Island.

No, not the city in the North.

This one was a bar, or a lounge, or whatever it was. The owner was probably a Northerner with a bit too much nostalgia to carry.

The flyer was in Jon’s hand, crumpled still from all the fidgeting that had dug creases into its glossy, flat surface. With a sigh, he lifted his head from the letters piecing the address and stared at the big, wooden door, above which a nearly faded neon sign flickered.

It was not some mainstream, boulevard location, that much was certain. He’d needed to turn several corners through streets and descend down a fling of stairs in a narrow alley to get here. Yes, it _was_ as unnerving as it was supposed to be.

 _This place looks more like a druggie lair and less like a bar,_ he thought, pathetically.

Much to his dissatisfaction, he had no choice. Those two thieving bastards were likely to be here and even if they weren’t, he would make sure to tear the ones associated with them a new one. Well… that was the plan, at least.

Stupidly, he lifted his knuckles to _knock._

_Wait, don’t knock on the bar’s door, you idiot._

He reluctantly opened the door and stepped into a room engulfed in the low hum of a speaker hung on the wall.

There was a narrow corridor, darker than the rest of the location, with various pictures adorning the walls. And at the end of it was the main room – or _the lounge,_ if the letters nailed to the arch at its entrance were reliable. The lounge was engulfed in a dim blend of pink and violet lights, a wide bar to the left and some tables to the right.

Sticking his fists into his pockets, Jon moved toward the lounge, prying into the images embellishing the corridor. There were plenty of unfamiliar faces, but there were a couple he _did_ recognize.

 _Those two,_ he fumed mentally, picking apart Daario and Reah from the pictures.

Once through the threshold of the lounge, Jon observed it was larger than he’d initially expected, but it was still refreshingly cozy in a weird sense. There was about fifteen people max, not counting the ones occupying stools at the bar.

 _What the hell?_ Jon let his gaze nervously swipe across his surroundings. _Is this where they’re holding a job interview?_

“Hello,” a female voice snapped his attention. A petite, _beautiful_ brown haired, brown eyed, brown skinned young woman was standing next to him. “Can I help you?”

Jon swallowed a lump.

“Yeah, I…” _Damn it. How do I tell someone that I’m here to take my stolen wallet back?_ “Do you know a Daario and a Reah?”

She blinked, familiarity sparked across her features.

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Are you the one with the wallet?”

Jon felt how the nagging boulder in his stomach sank, releasing some tension through his nostrils.

“That would be me, I guess,” he answered, sheepishly.

A faint smile played on her lips, though he could tell it was out of politeness.

“They are at the table around the corner. At the back.”

Why was she telling him this so casually?

“Right,” he exhaled. “Thanks.”

He turned heel, but then she stopped him.

“My name is Missandei, by the way. Missandei Naath.”

The confusion must have been quite jarringly vivid across his stupefied face.

“Nice to meet you, Missandei,” Jon said curtly. “Thanks again for the help.” He was not going to just get name-basis friendly with a girl who associated herself with a couple of thieving assholes.

Following Missandei’s directions, he approached the back of the lounge, throwing in passing some glances toward the various people inhabiting the tables. He was curious to see just what breeds of humans hanged around this place. Just to know if he was going to be murdered that night.

The moment he turned the corner and found an isolated table, he was greeted with the booming sound of laughter and the sight of a handful of people gathered around with playing cards in their hands and cigarettes in their teeth.

The first one Jon noticed was _Daario_ and Daario was quick to notice him as well. His grin started to retract back into his face and this, in turn, drew the attention of the rest of the people at the table on Jon. Reah was among them too. Other than her, a stern young man with a bald head, an older grey haired man, and an older woman donned in eccentric clothing.

“Ah,” beamed Daario, clipping the cigarette from his teeth and squashing it out in an ashtray already filled to the brim with vicious remnants. “Look who has decided to join us.”

This seemingly jesting attitude flared Jon’s anger.

“I want my wallet back,” he spat out, all thoughts of diplomacy forgotten.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” complained the woman, turning a scornful look toward Daario, who seemed to be shrinking in his seat. “You did _not_ resume this _stupid_ practice, I hope.”

“Lady Olenna, it’s alright,” intervened Reah. “We were going to go find him if he didn’t show up.”

“Well, that certainly makes it all perfectly fine then, doesn’t it?” She intertwined her fingers in her lap. “A word of advice, my dears: sometimes it’s easier asking for permission than for an apology.”

Jon was beyond lost.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered out. “I just want to get my wallet back. Please?”

Suddenly, Olenna’s hand whipped up and delivered a sturdy whack across Daario’s head.

“Give the boy his damn wallet back and quit being a royal prick.”

Jon stared, perplexed. From the corner of his eye, he saw Daario searching his pockets and then suddenly hurling the wallet toward him. Luckily, his reflexes had responded just in time to catch it.

“There,” he heard Daario mutter.

“Sweet Mary and Joseph,” mumbled Olenna. “And I told her – I _told her_ to keep you out of this. Now here are, _stuck_ with you and your poor life choices.”

Jon was too busy inspecting the contents of his wallet to truly appreciate the beauty unfolded before him. _Nothing is missing, thank God._

“You,” barked Olenna. Jon looked up. She was staring at him intently. “Take a seat.”

“Uh,” Jon shifted nervously, “I only came here for the wallet—”

“I did not ask what you came here for, did I?” She canted her head to the side, gesturing toward an empty chair between Reah and the grey-haired man. “Sit.”

“What is wrong with you people?” Jon asked suddenly, a frown on his face. “First, you gang up on me in the street. Then, you _steal my wallet._ And now, what – you’re kidnapping me? Is that it?”

“Buddy, if we were to kidnap you, you’d be tied in a basement with cotton stuffed in your mouth already,” snickered Daario.

Reah nudged him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a creep. _Stop it_. This is serious.”

“They mean well,” said the older man, slowly rising from his seat. There was a benevolent mellowness in his eyes. “Daario has some old habits he needs to shrug off still. Reah has had a difficult upbringing. But they only want to help.”

“Help _who?_ ” queried Jon. “They haven’t helped me once so far.”

“This place,” the man replied, gaze scanning the walls, “their friend, their dream.”

“Are you talking about this design studio thing?” He nodded. “Sorry to disappoint, but harassing people and stealing their shit is not the way you recruit people.”

“No, it’s not.” A meek smile spread on his lips and Jon was left without retaliation. “My name is Barristan Selmy. I am a manager.” He moved to step next to the old woman, settling a hand on her shoulder. “This is Dame Olenna Tyrell. You have probably heard the name before.”

Jon felt his scowl dissipate. _Tyrell._ He definitely recognized the name, which had been plastered all throughout various business magazines and uttered by his father, a businessman himself.

“The beauty products, right?” questioned Jon.

“Precisely.” He then pointed toward the blue-haired fellow. “This is Daario Naharis. He was born in Essos and raised in a life of crime.”

“Hey, I repented for my sins,” butted in Daario.

“Yeah?” scoffed Olenna. “Try saying that when other people’s wallets are not between your ass cheeks.”

“I’m Doreah Lys,” said Reah, her smile welcoming yet _unnerving._ “But just call me Reah. And this one is Grey Walsh.” She patted the silent man’s shoulder. “He can’t speak, sadly.”

Jon’s jaw was hanging lowly as his glance kept bouncing back and forth.

“Look,” he sighed in utter exasperation, “this is nice and all, but I only wanted to get my wallet back, so—”

“It’s pretty empty,” Olenna Tyrell suddenly interjected.

“…Excuse me?”

“Your wallet?” She pointed toward his pocket. “It’s pretty empty.”

Jon’s brows contorted in perplexity, “You looked into my fucking wallet?”

“Oh, calm your horses,” she snorted. “I got a glimpse when you were making sure Daario hadn’t eaten your ID card. Am I wrong, though?”

“No, I guess, you’re not. If this is about your job interview, I’m not interested.”

“What _are_ you interested in then?”

He suddenly found himself at a crossroads on that one. It was like the _hobbies_ question on a resume. The fact that he never really knew what to put it in there was depressing as hell.

“I don’t know, accounting, maybe,” he answered flatly and then Daario snickered crudely.

“You’re into _accounting_ for kicks?”

“No, it’s my _major._ I don’t have time for anything else.” _You dick,_ he wanted to add, but alas, he found himself disinterested in stirring the pot with more commotion.

“We have a flexible schedule,” jumped in Reah. “You’ll have time for both.”

“I,” Jon stammered, “I don’t understand. Why are you so desperate to get me on board of this whole business?”

“Because you’re a looker,” said Olenna, moving to light up a slender cigarette and draw in a cloud of smoke. “And because these fools were unable to find the person they need and now they’re risking losing their studio rental and wasting _my money_.”

Barristan sighed, “Don’t take it this way, Mrs. Tyrell.”

At this point, Jon started to feel a strange surge of curiosity rise in him. As some intense arguments started to heat up at the table, he lifted the flyer once more, darting his attention toward the words again – this time, with a lot more focus.

 _A design studio just getting started,_ he thought. _Called Valyrian Delight. Valyrian? Like the country?_ Valyria was quite the technologically advanced country, ranked among one of the richest in the world. Needless to say, boldly stamping an association with it on a product was quite the brave choice. Someone could easily get sued by the Valyrian government for it.

He had never thought about something like fashion, or design, or _modeling._ But then again, had he ever thought of many things? His focus had solely been on his studies his whole life, chased away from the grander joys of life by his endless fear of Catelyn Stark’s wrath. Standing there and listening to these weird, _weird_ people bicker and exchange plans of a glorious future in spotlights and runaways made him feel awfully aware of how… _hollow_ his life was.

Many times before, Jon had drifted to sleep hoping an opportunity might drop at his feet, something to give his life meaning. He had never thought of what it could _look_ like, but what if it was this?

“Dear?” pried Olenna Tyrell and when Jon lifted his gaze, he realized the arguments had cooled down.

“Jon,” he said, after a moment’s worth. “My name is Jon Snow.”

Something about the way Olenna’s lips curled into a smile served as a stark contrast to the otherwise devil-may-care acre attitude she’d earlier displayed.

“Jon,” she repeated, “I do believe we may have gotten you thinking.” He didn’t say anything. “Here is my proposal. Join us for one month. That is all. If you learn that you don’t approve of this route, you are free to go.” Jon had to admit that sounded awfully tempting. Almost too good to be true.

“But?” he question.

“ _But_ you will need to contribute to the studio rental for this month.”

“That’s fine,” he replied immediately. “I have plenty of saved up money and nothing to do with them.” He’d set them aside for _traveling_ or whatever, but he’d never traveled anywhere in his life, save for the journey from Winterfell to King’s Landing when he’d been a kid.

“Is that a yes?” queried Barristan.

“I—I don’t know. What am I even supposed to do? What does this whole thing entail?”

“Entail,” scoffed Daario. “ _Entail._ I bet he owns bonnets.”

Reah smacked him again. “Daario, for fuck’s sake!”

“Oh, bummer, I don’t know,” said Olenna, electing to completely ignore Daario’s existence. “I know as much as you do about this whole… _modeling,_ fashion, clothes-wearing-walking business.”

This sparked a pretty big question in Jon’s head.

“Does _anyone_ here know anything?” he questioned.

“I’m a fashion design student,” responded Reah. “And so is Grey and so is Missandei, who you have just met, I assume. Daario’s role is to be the group’s clown.”

“Freelancer, Doreah,” snorted Daario. “I share my ideas with the world free of expense.”

“And any _expertise,_ ” spat Olenna.

“We basically just need someone to help us showcase the male clothing lines,” explained Reah. “I’ll be doing it for the girls. And we hope you’ll be doing it for the boys. We’ve been looking for someone for months, but no one was really interested. And those that were haven’t been, well… model material.”

Jon frowned, pointing an index toward Daario.

“What’s wrong with him then?”

Daario opened his mouth to speak, but Olenna cut him off, “He looks like a dumpster fire. What sponsor would ever support the blue beard and the yellow mustache?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Olenna,” sighed Daario.

Thinking for a moment, Jon raised a hand and scratched at the back of his head.

“So, basically, all I gotta do is play dress up?” he concluded.

“Well, a little bit more than that,” chirped Reah. “We might need to work on the attitude, there will be some photos, some meetings… But I’m telling you, Jon, you’ve totally got the presence for it.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Like, you’re a fine piece of ass.”

“…Thanks.”

“What do you say?” asked Olenna and Jon felt like his time was truly coming to an end.

He stopped for a moment, simply allowing himself to drift back into the thought process from earlier. He had never given much thought to _fame,_ or to luxury, or to whatever might come along with this opportunity. But _it was an opportunity._

Who cared about accounting? He didn’t. It was only what Catelyn Stark had thought it to be best for him when she had enlisted all of the clean-cut, white collar jobs that would ensure he wouldn’t become a deviant.

 _I’m twenty-one,_ Jon thought, fingers starting to clench around the crumpled flier in his hand. _Fuck. I’m twenty-one and I’ve never done a single interesting thing in my life._

He took in a sharp breath.

“Alright,” he said, eliciting a plethora of relieved reactions. “I’ll try out that month. Is there, uh, a contract or something?”

“Surely,” confirmed Barristan. “I have managed plenty of people in my life. I don’t mind adding another one to my current contract.”

“Current contract?” asked Jon. “You mean, Reah?”

“He means _Miss Valyrian Delight_ herself,” croaked Daario, twisting a playing card between his fingers. _Well, that’s awfully vague._

“S— Sorry, who?”

Daario’s arm craned above his head and he pointed a finger toward the wall behind him. Or, rather, the photos framing it. When Jon’s gaze followed the movement, it came to clash with a canvas depicting a young woman donned in white, her flowing tresses painted a glowing shade of silver and her lilac eyes scorching at his innards with the intensity of her stare.

“Khaleesi, as I’m sure more people still know her by,” uttered Reah, her own eyes roaming through the chamber. Jon hadn’t paid much attention to the photos on the walls, but he now saw that the grand majority of them depicted the same face, a very _familiar_ face.

 _Khaleesi._ He replayed the name in his head, recalling having seen it displayed on his TV, or on billboards, or in some of the magazines Sansa read. Having seen _her face_ displayed in many of places.

Jon realized that he was staring, his stare having returned to the initial photograph hanging above Daario’s head. Was he… was he going to be working alongside an actual celebrity? Or, well, _once_ celebrity. Is that how it worked?

“You _have_ heard of her then,” hummed Barristan. “If your face is any indication.”

“I,” he gulped down lightly, “recognize the face, yes. But last I’ve seen of her, she was retiring.” And after a big scandal nonetheless.

“She fell out with her previous management and agency. I picked her up then and now she is trying to pursue her own path, this time as a designer.”

“Whoa,” gasped Jon. “And you want to manage _me_ too?”

“I’m in a generous mood,” snickered Barristan. He stepped away from the table and closer to him, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Go home now, Jon Snow. You still have time to change your mind, though I surely hope you won’t. And if you don’t, come back here tomorrow.”

“Hey,” called Reah, leaning into her chair, arms folded over the backrest. A crooked grin played on her face. “Ever seen any teen movies, Jon?”

“I mean, I guess I have,” he muttered, voice laced with mild confusion. “Why?”

“Because you’re gonna get a _makeover._ Make sure not to straighten your hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon and dany will meet next chapter, which should be out in about two days.
> 
> thanks for reading!


	3. Marigold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Bear Island, meets the famed Khaleesi, and starts his own journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heya! update time, yay!
> 
> i don't have much to say, except the fact that i'm not a huge fan of this chapter since i was super ill while writing, but i just churned it out anyway. happy reading!

**JON**

He had barely slept one lash that night.

There were many thoughts that had leisurely roamed through his head, starting from some that would warrant some sort of excitement and ending with those at the opposite specter. For starters, he could not understand for the hell of him why had just accepted to get involved in a project with a dubious group of people who had lured him in through _mugging_.

But at the same time, he had found himself guilty of painting a great deal of pictures in his head, imagining a bedazzled future away from the restrictive binds that had chained him his whole life. Free to pursue a craving of his own, free to live out a better routine, just all around _free_.

Plus, there was always the fact that the concept of fame had always been, oh, so very alluring.

Maybe he could get to eat some fancy foods or attend parties with important people. A part of him also thought it would be nice to feel how an expensive fabric pressed into his skin and to have expensive perfumes combed through his hair.

 _That’s right,_ he’d thought, right before the clutches of slumber had taken him in, _Reah told me to not straighten my hair._

This thought got lost as he floated through the dreamy clouds, so the next morning, he had assumed his daily ritual as per usual. Understandably, some would say. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near enough sleep. Definitely not enough to register this tiny detail.

The procedure was as per usual. He struggled to jam his door open, got ready, exchanged some words with Arya, received some scowls from Catelyn…

This time around, however, Jon had to wait for Robb to finish whatever important conversation Catelyn was having with him. As he stepped into the living room, he noticed Sansa sitting on the couch, idly browsing through her phone. His eyes glided toward the pile of magazines on the coffee table, which in turn sparked some curiosities.

“Hey, Sansa,” he said and she tugged a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, staring at him with foreign eyes. Clearly, none of them were particularly used to casual exchanges among each other. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends what this _something_ is,” she retorted flatly, returning her attention to the phone.

“Do you know who, uh, _Khaleesi_ is?”

And now her blue eyes were back on him. Her thumb pressed into a button by the side of the phone and the screen darkened as she lowered the device. The confusion in her face was rather uncomfortable to watch.

“I guess,” she replied, somewhat uncertain of his reasoning. “She’s a popular model. Or used to be. Now she’s retired.”

“What happened?”

Sansa quirked a brow.

“I don’t really know all the details, but… I think it had something to do with a scandal from a couple of years ago. She suddenly severed ties with her management and whatever and just sort of disappeared.”

“Ah,” mused Jon, enthralled by the strength of these details. _She’s not retired,_ he thought. _She’s just starting on her own._

“Why did you ask me this weird question?” mumbled Sansa, causing Jon to fidget lightly in his footing.

“Oh, no, nothing,” he breathed out, shrugging. “I’m gonna go wait for Robb outside now. Thanks.”

And outside he went.

Robb joined him after a couple more minutes and the two resumed their usual walk along their shared path. There were several moments when Jon debated talking to Robb about this whole ordeal, but he settled it was best kept secret. Not only was it a pretty shady business that might draw in some judgment, but Robb had a tendency of meaning well and sometimes running his mouth without really realizing.

At the crossroads, they parted ways again. And, again, Jon decided to ditch the road that took him to the college.

 _It can wait,_ he pondered, slipping his headphones on and letting the music flood his ears. _Classes only officially start tomorrow._ As he walked, a small lump settled in his throat, which he failed to ignore. _If Catelyn knew, she would skin me alive._

The anxiety of his choice led a cigarette being plucked between his lips and its scorching smoke to fill his lungs. She didn’t even know this was a habit of his. No one knew. No one aside from Arya. Jon could always count on Arya not passing any judgment on him.

The road to Bear Island was filled with lots of thoughts, most of which were what ifs and concerns that wouldn’t stop bugging him.

* * *

 

**DAENERYS**

“Would you like another biscuit, Barristan?”

“Oh, thank you, Daenerys. I am appropriately full.”

Dany set the plate back to the table and then bit down into one of the tender biscuits.

“Please remind Missandei how wonderful of a baker she is next time you see her,” said Barristan, a mellow smile playing on his lips as he lifted the cup to finish off his coffee.

“Will do,” replied Dany, only after she had made sure to gulp down the biscuit.

About to dive once more into a conversation, she stopped herself when the gradually-growing-louder sound of footsteps started to climb up the stairs. After a few moments, Jorah showed up, halting in the threshold.

“The fellow we were talking about is here,” he announced.

“Jon Snow?” queried Barristan, getting ready to rise from his seat. Dany held up a hand to gesture for him to stop, shuffling up to her feet instead.

“Sit down, Barristan. Please. I know you struggle with these damn stairs every time. I’ll bring him here.”

Barristan nodded, not hiding his sigh of relief as he slouched back into his seat.

“I’ll patiently wait here then,” he said and then soon after, Dany departed from his presence, following Jorah down the fling of stairs that connected the small flat to the bar below. Jorah returned to the back, tending to his duties, and left Dany alone.

With a faint sigh, she pushed through the wooden doors that separated the area with the stairs from the rest. She was welcomed by the sight of a relatively empty lounge, only the faint voices of a couple of distant guests and a muffled radio music dancing in the air.

Slouched on a stool over the counter, she noticed _him._

Everyone had attempted to describe this Jon Snow already, though nothing in their words had made him seem all that special. And, to be quite frank, he didn’t seem to be at first glance either, not really.

Dany stepped toward the bar, drawing his sight closer, enough to notice he was absorbed by his own music. As she stepped even nearer, his head lowered and he buried his face between his arms, which were folded over the counter. With a glisten of amusement hooking at her lips, she moved behind the bar, halting in front of his oughted figure and pressed her palms into the counter, leaning into it slightly.

“Hello?” she called out tentatively. When he didn’t respond, it was clear she hadn’t been loud enough. “Sorry,” she tried again. Still nothing. In the end, she was quick to lose her patience, so she tapped him on his arm, something that immediately resulted in him flinching and his head abruptly shooting back upwards. It was so sudden Dany was forced to retreat a couple of steps back.

A joyful snicker bobbled off her lips as she sighted his dazed expression.

“ _Sorry_ ,” she said through her grin, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you… sleeping?”

He tugged down at his headphones and swallowed a lump, brows furrowing.

“No,” he responded simply and his puzzlement melted into his features, which became a canvas difficult to decipher. “I don’t think I can ever get drunk enough for that.”

“Good,” she mused. “It’s not a flattering thing to do. Are you Jon Snow?”

“I am, yes. I came for the—for the, whatever this is.”

“And I’m here to get you through _whatever this is_.” She couldn’t tell through the pale violet lights pooling in the lounge, but for a moment she thought she saw his cheeks speckled by the remnants of a blush. And, suddenly, his face became a vivid picture again, painted in the colors of bewilderment.

“Oh,” he breathed out. “Are you—are you Khaleesi?”

Even if it had been a harmless query, it elicited an immediate wince from Dany.

“That’s what most people know me by, yes,” she murmured, though not unkindly. “My name’s Daenerys. Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Sorry, I didn’t really recognize you. Your… your _hair_ is… you know.”

“Brown, yes,” she continued. “You’d be surprised by how few people recognize me in the streets because of a simple hair color change.”

“Right,” he replied, almost apologetically. “I’m Jon.” He paused, a hand rising to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “…Of course, you _knew_ that, though.” _He’s quite the adorable sight,_ Dany found herself thinking, not biting back on the smile curling her lips.

“Come on,” she cooed, doing a hand gesture as she left the hiding of the bar. “Barristan is upstairs. He’ll tell you all the legal things.”

Jon picked his shoulder bag off the nearby stool and followed after her.

“What’s upstairs?” he questioned.

“Jorah’s flat. He’s the bar owner and an old friend. He lives there sometimes, but my friends and I often crash it too. It’s more of a shared place at this point.”

The two of them climbed the stairs and Jon received quite the warm greeting from Barristan. Dany had picked up from the man’s way of speaking that he seemed to have really liked this young man and now it was only the more obvious. They sat down at the table, exchanging some pleasantries and passing biscuits around, and in no time, Dany forgot all about manners and had to retreat to the entertainment of her phone while the two men discussed out their matters.

After a while, Barristan excused himself and left to tend to other businesses, leaving the table inhabited only by the two of them.

Silence.

Dany set her phone to the side, starting to occupy her time by twirling the end of a long strand of brown hair around her finger.

_Silence._

From the corners of her eyes, she noted Jon’s stiff positioning in his seat, how his fingers were gripping tightly the handles.

“You really seem to believe silence is golden,” she commented, harmlessly.

“I have to admit I’m not exactly the best at making idle chatter with strangers.” His gaze turned toward her and he rewarded her with a small smile, full of sincere meekness. “Sorry.”

“Well, then… Let’s just hope my friends get here quickly to spare you this torment.”

And as if they had been telepathically summoned, Reah’s and Daario’s voices boomed from downstairs, increasing in volume as they advanced further up the stairs. There were about three bags on each of Reah’s arms and Daario carried a couple of them himself.

“Hey!” chirped Reah. “Jon’s here! That’s great.”

“Olenna wasn’t here,” remarked Daario. “Must be why he survived.”

“Haven’t kept you waiting for too long, I hope?” asked Reah as she set her bags on a nearby couch, working to untie the thin scarf wrapped around her neck, a red wonder with leaf imprints that made it perfect for the autumnal weather.

“We’ve managed to make the time pass,” answered Dany. Despite it being mostly a lie, she didn’t mean it as a reproof.

Suddenly, as Reah’s eyes landed on Jon, her expression darkened and a small shriek left her throat.

“Oh, damn it!” she cried out. “Your hair’s all tied up and… _not cool_.” She lunged forward and grabbed his forearm, urging him to rise from his seat. “Okay, go.” She nudged at his side, quite vehemently too. “Take a bath and get all that moist goodness in your hair.”

“ _Ew_ ,” interjected Daario. “Don’t ever say the words _moist goodness_ again.”

“What?” breathed out Jon, visibly baffled.

“You didn’t sign it yet,” stated Reah and, thus, Dany’s gaze glided toward the contract resting on the table. “You’re not the only one who needs to make up his mind, young man. We need a test. Go get your perky curls out, and let us take care of you, and we’ll see who wins this bet between Daario and I.”

Dany couldn’t help the small groan leaving her lips as she pushed her forehead into her palm.

“God, Reah,” she muttered. “This all sounds very predatory.” A nervous chuckle wobbled off her lips, her violet stare finding Jon’s afterwards. “Don’t get worked up over her. It’s just her. But, yes, we’d appreciate it if you could, um… _audition,_ if you will.”

“Oh,” he sounded, as if everything suddenly made sense. “That’s fair enough, I guess.” And with that, he turned heel and retreated into the bathroom.

Several minutes passed since, during which Dany spent her time emptying the biscuit tray together with Reah and Daario. Missandei and Grey Worm were busy at the foundation, having left this task just to the three of them, no matter how much Dany wished they could have been there for their input as well.

“Alright.” That was Jon Snow’s voice. Dany’s head snapped and then she saw him tightly wrapped in a puffy bathrobe and standing in the doorway, the steams of the shower rolling out of the chamber. His head was a mop of unruly, dark curls, set loose and free from the confinements that he had previously sported.

Dany knew that Reah was probably raging at the sight, but she couldn’t help but think that he looked better like this than with whatever styling she would comb through it.

“Okay,” chimed Reah, bolting up from her seat. “Let’s go back and let me arrange you a bit.”

“Hey,” called Daario out, his voice unenthusiastic. “Just take this with you now while you’re at it.” He held up a glossy back which clearly cloaked a bundle of unseen clothes inside of it. Reah craned a hand and snatched it before disappearing back into the bathroom with Jon, leaving the door wide open.

A few minutes passed and then Reah was out, the door closing behind her.

Several more minutes and then it opened again.

When he walked out of it, he looked like a proper penguin, waddling and barely able to take a contained step. His hair had been combed out of his eyes according to whatever limited resources this flat fostered and, much to Dany’s joy, the suit fit him rather well. It wasn’t a perfect match, of course, but it was a gamble that paid off.

“You’re staring,” uttered Jon, arms raising in frustration. “Is it good? Bad?”

“Bad,” retorted Reah.

“Alright,” joined in Dany.

“I think it’s pretty good,” spoke Daario, immediately drawing numerous confused pairs of eyes on him. “What? I came in with zero expectations. They can’t go lower than zero, can they?”

Jon deflated, his body language giving away the surges of insecurities even when his face wouldn’t. Dany had been used to dropping detached critiques for far too long. To someone who didn’t have experience with them, it must have all sounded quite unfoundedly harsh.

“We don’t mean it the way you think we do,” she tried to explain, sitting up and walking toward him, letting a keen and analytical eye scan his figure. “It’s impossible for it all to be good right off the bat. You have no experience.”

“You kinda have a natural… _presence,_ though,” murmured Reah. This prompted Dany to drop the critical peer and to let her eyes wander toward his face, suddenly clashing with the darkness swirling in his irises. There was a special intensity etched in them, melancholic and mysterious, perhaps a bit… “Brooding,” said Reah, wording Dany’s exact thought. “You look brooding. I like brooding. It’s good. Not many models can pull this off these days. The market is starving.”

“I’m… glad?” pressed Jon, tentatively.

Dany reached out a hand and let her fingers straighten lightly at his collar.

“It’s good, Jon,” she reassured. “It’s not good, but at the same time it is. It shows you’re a natural.”

“Alright, this is touching and all,” complained Daario, “but I have a train to catch. Is Doctor Doom here joining us or not?”

Dany’s eyes turned to Jon inquisitively, observing the turn of cogwheels from his head.

“It’s a yes on my part,” she finally confirmed. “Now the last step is yours.”

Much to Dany’s surprise, it took him a few seconds to step away from her and to move toward the table and pick up a pen. Just as he was clicking the ballpoint out, Reah flailed a hand in front of him, stopping him.

“Wait, you have to sign with your stage name.”

“My what?”

“I mean, it’s not _obligatory._ But it’s easier to recognize. And trendy. And it helps separate life from work better.” _I wish,_ Dany found herself thinking.

“I, uh,” Jon scratched at his head, “I didn’t think of this. I don’t really… have anything in mind.”

“We can help,” hummed Reah, crossing her arms over her chair’s backrest. “What do you think, Dany?”

“I think we shouldn’t have it too different from your real name. Something unique, but simple and memorable.”

“Antoine,” said Daario suddenly.

“What the fuck?” barked Reah.

“I knew a French guy named Antoine once. Who’s named Antoine in Westeros? No one, that’s right.”

“No, this isn’t working,” mumbled Dany, drawing a judgmental look from Reah from simply considering Daario’s suggestion as a _legitimate one_. “Something closer to his real name. Maybe something ending in –on too?”

“Jeon,” said Daario, boredly.

Reah rubbed at her temple and sighed, “Doesn’t this sound Korean?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“But foreign is a good idea,” realized Dany. “A foreign name that’s not that common in its place of origin either.” Silence veiled them for a moment and then, suddenly, Dany felt the enlightenment of an epiphany, her glance locking onto Jon enthusiastically. “I think I know. It’s a Valyrian name, an old one, that practically no one uses today.”

“Valyrian name for Valyrian Delight?” queried Jon, the look in his eyes telling her that he was about to accept the proposal thrown his way. “Seems fitting.”

Dany leaned over the table, clipping the pen between her fingers and then holding it out to him, earnest excitement blooming in her anguished heart, which was finally able to face a new beginning, a new hope, and a new life.

“Sign it then,” she said softly, “Aegon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo, i'm not a fan of the aegon thing on the show, but seeing how it has nothing to do with parentage and other complicated shenanigans in this story, i like it. i just like the name in general. this time around, it's simply a piece of dany that she's offering him right off the bat since it's of valyrian origins. 
> 
> anywho, i would've updated tomorrow, but i'll be busy with "a touch for silence" then, so the next chapter should be out on sunday or monday at most.
> 
> thanks for the support!


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